


The Sympathy Card

by San Antonio Rose (ramblin_rosie)



Category: The Saint (TV)
Genre: Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Loss of Spouse, Male Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:13:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27536608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ramblin_rosie/pseuds/San%20Antonio%20Rose
Summary: As a detective who'd dealt with his share of murder cases, Chief Inspector Teal thought he understood loss. After the sudden death of his wife, however, he finds the reality of grief rather different, especially the difference one card--and the man who sent it--can make.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4
Collections: Hold Me: A Comfort Prompfest





	The Sympathy Card

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "Any/original, a handmade card (holiday, birthday, get-well, etc)" for sholio's Hold Me comfort comment-fic meme.

"Terribly sorry, old man," said the superintendent.

"Worst week of my life," admitted Chief Inspector Claude Eustace Teal.

"I'm sure. Still... stiff upper lip and all that." The super paused. "I'll, er, grant your week's bereavement leave at once."

Claude nodded. "Thank you, sir."

The super nodded back and moved on, leaving Claude to escape into the silent solitude of his office at last. He'd never fully realized how exhausting people could be.

It was only after he'd hung up his hat and coat that he noticed the rectangle of black paper on his desk with a fresh roll of his favorite peppermints sitting on top of it. He approached warily, but somehow he already knew what the paper was: an envelope with _CLAUDE_ printed on the back in familiar block letters with white ink. There was also a small slip of paper resting against the peppermints, on which the same hand had written _IN LIEU OF FLOWERS_.

Not sure whether that was meant as a joke, Claude sat down and moved the peppermints and their note to the side, braced himself, and opened the envelope. Inside was... a card, clearly handmade. The front read _Deepest Sympathies_ in flowing script, and below that stood a bouquet of red and white poppies done in ink and oil pastels.

_Claude_ , read the inside, _I'm sure I'm the very last person you want to see right now, but I did want to tell you how frightfully sorry I am to hear about your wife. You know where I am if you want me. Call or come by any time—my door, my bar, and my guest room are open to you._ But in place of a signature, as expected, was the haloed stick figure that had dogged Claude's career.

Claude ran a shaking hand over his mouth. _Leave it to Templar_ , he thought but didn't know where that thought was leading.

He didn't know how long it was or how many peppermints he'd gone through before he finally pulled himself together enough to leave. He tucked the card into the inside pocket of his jacket without thinking. But as he drove away from Scotland Yard, a mental fog descended that was every bit as thick as the pea soup rolling in from the Thames and didn't lift until he found himself standing in front of a familiar door that was opening to reveal the worried face of Simon Templar.

"Come in, Claude," Templar said quietly.

Claude simply nodded and went in, not even hearing the door when it closed behind him.

"What can I get you?" Templar asked as he took Claude's hat and coat and hung them up. "Whiskey, wine?"

Claude took a deep breath and shook his head. "Just tea, thanks."

Templar nodded. "Here." He gently steered Claude into a chair by the fire. "Won't be a moment," he said then and disappeared into his kitchen, and either he was as good as his word or Claude lost time again, because it truly seemed less than a minute before Templar returned with a tea tray and presented Claude with a cup of tea just the way Claude liked it.

"Thanks," Claude whispered and took a sip.

"You're welcome," Templar replied and sat down on the hearth with his own cuppa.

How had Claude never—well, no, he _had_ known how good Templar was with victims. He'd just never expected to be on the receiving end of those particular talents himself.

They drank in surprisingly companionable silence until Claude put his cup back in its saucer with a sigh. "I don't know why I'm here," he confessed quietly. "I suppose I just... I couldn't go home."

Templar nodded.

"Diana, she... she was...." Claude's voice cracked, and he stopped, unsure of what he was even trying to say or why.

"She was the love of your life," Templar observed.

Claude looked at Templar in surprise. He hadn't expected understanding from a man like Templar, a notorious international playboy who seemed to have a girl in every port. But then he remembered the disappearance of Patricia Holm—not a case for the police, as she'd left of her own accord, but Templar hadn't been his usual cocky, rakish self for weeks afterward and had finally told Claude that he'd proposed to her and she'd fled. Claude's current circumstances were completely different, of course... but maybe Templar _had_ had a taste of the same grief.

"I can't face people right now," Claude continued. "Maybe tomorrow, but tonight... the platitudes, the awkwardness, the 'stiff upper lip, old chap'... it's torture."

Templar nodded. "I meant what I said in the card. Stay as long as you like."

Claude's breath hitched. "I don't want to put you out—"

"It's no trouble, Claude. Truly."

"Maybe... just for tonight."

"I'll go and turn down the spare bed." Templar stood and put a hand on Claude's shoulder.

Somehow that simple touch—that gesture of genuine friendship from _Simon Templar_ , of all people—was what finally broke the dam. Claude buried his face in his hands and wept... and Templar kept his hand where it was until Claude had cried himself out.


End file.
